


I'm Sorry, I Didn't Know (FebuWhump 10)

by SylvanFreckles



Series: Freckles' FebuWhump 2021 [10]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Day 10, Febuwhump 2021, Gen, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Manhandling, Post-Season/Series 01, Protective Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Shoulder dislocation, Torture, Yennefer is a badass, but also soft underneath, i think, of course it's nilfgaard, references show and book canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29416491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanFreckles/pseuds/SylvanFreckles
Summary: (Set after season one and based on events in The Blood of Elves)Jaskier finds himself in the hands of the enemy, being tortured for information about Geralt's location. Unfortunately he hasn't seen the witcher since that horrible day on the mountain. All seems lost and hopeless, but he has an ally on the way that even Jaskier doesn't know about...Yennefer of Vengerberg.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Freckles' FebuWhump 2021 [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2139234
Comments: 1
Kudos: 43
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	I'm Sorry, I Didn't Know (FebuWhump 10)

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes, torturing Jaskier again, but this time there are snuggles afterward. Not Geralt snuggles, because I'm still mad at him over that whole mountain break-up thing (is it really Jaskier's fault you decided to ask for the law of surprise? Really? You could have asked for anything and you decided on the same blasted magic destiny that lead to the situation you just helped resolved. And the djinn! You do realize it was YOUR wish that almost killed Jaskier, right? In the book at least the djinn was just pissed off and then you literally told it to go fuck itself and that was your first wish, but in the show YOU did that, and YOU decided Jaskier was the source of your misfortune? Sit down, pal, we've got a lot to discuss).
> 
> Sorry, where was I? Anyway, story!

The first thing he was aware of when he pulled himself out of the spiraling blackness was the pain in his wrists. Pain that lanced down his arms to his shoulders, and even his chest and stomach when he tried to move. 

The second thing was the burlap sack over his head. It smelled faintly of old potatoes and dust, and he choked and coughed when he tried to catch his breath.

Then it was the taste in his mouth and the back of his throat. The faint remnants of wine and something like the odor of water lilies and incense. 

Now Jaskier remembered. The pudgy little man with the greasy forehead and too many rings on his thick fingers. He'd offered to buy the bard a drink, claimed to be a patron of the arts, but he'd only asked about the songs Jaskier had written about the witcher. 

“Oh, good, you're awake.”

The sack was tugged off his head in one swift movement and Jaskier found himself blinking in the hazy light of a few candles. There were two or three other people in the room, but they were nothing but vague shapes as he tried to shake the last of the muzziness from his head.

That was a mistake. The movement pulled on his shoulders and sent a shock of pain spiraling up his arms to his wrists, which he now realized were bound above him. No, wait...his wrists were bound together and he was  _hanging_ from them. His fingers were nearly numb but he could just feel the metal curve of the hook between his hands. There was just enough slack in the rope for his lower legs and knees to rest against the ground, but that was it...and the drugging had left him without the strength to pull himself up any farther to rest his abused shoulders.

Someone had asked a question. Jaskier tried to focus, but the terror pounding through his brain at being caught in this situation was making his blood roar in his ears. Oh, gods, no one knew where he was. No one was expecting him. He had an open invitation to lecture for the summer semester at Oxenfurt, but if he didn't show up they'd assume he just had other plans. He was utterly alone and at the mercy of men who had drugged and kidnapped and strung him up like a side of meat to cure.

The bucket of water flung into his face snapped him out of his panicked thoughts with a splutter. He coughed and spat and shivered, every movement agony on his wrists and shoulders. “Wh-what is it?” If he didn't think about it, maybe he could convince himself his teeth were chattering from the cold and not fear.

“We're looking for the witcher,” the man said, with the impatient tone of someone repeating himself. It wasn't the pudgy man from the inn; this one was taller and darker. Jaskier couldn't make out too many details in his woozy state, though his eyes seemed to fix on the red brooch on the other man's cloak.

“Sorry?” Jaskier tried to clear his head and looked up toward the man's face. “I don't know where he is. Haven't seen him for months. Not since...not in a long time.”

Red Brooch gave a simpering smirk and nodded to someone behind Jaskier. The rope creaked and Jaskier bit back a cry of pain when he was hauled upward by his wrists, the movement pulling on every joint in his body until...he stopped.

Heart in his mouth, he craned his head back to look at his legs. They were wrapped in heavy chains, one behind his knees and the other across his ankles, and the chains were staked to the ground to hold his lower body in place. Every haul on the rope pulled his body between two opposing forces, threatening to tear or dislocate his joints.

A slap across the face brought his attention back to Red Brooch. The man was obviously impatient. “Everyone knows you follow the witcher around like a simpering maiden,” Red Brooch sneered. “All you've done for most of a decade is sing his praise from one end of the continent to the other and you expect us to believe you just lost him?”

Jaskier swallowed and tried to work a little moisture back into his mouth. “I don't know,” he said, voice weak. “We-we haven't seen each other since the mountain, since the dragon hunt. He doesn't...I don't know.”

Red Brooch sighed and gestured again. This time the pull on the rope was sharp and fast and Jaskier tried to scream, only to realize his captor's upraised hand was glowing as he cast a spell that muted Jaskier's voice. 

The stretch was horrible. The coarse rope tore at the sensitive flesh of his wrists and his left shoulder, which had been injured in a fall out a window a few years before, was already very close to being pulled out of socket. The sudden release of tension brought only mild relief, as the man behind him simply let go of the rope and Jaskier fell a few inches before he was caught by the bindings around his wrists. It was all burning and pulling, like he was being torn apart on the inside.

Closing his fist, Red Brooch released his hold on Jaskier's voice. “You wrote that ballad about the Child Surprise.” He leaned in, one hand on Jaskier's shoulder, pushing down just enough that a new spike of agony shot down his arms from his wrists. “So you know he found her. The Lion Cub of Cintra.”

Jaskier shook his head. That had been...that had been poetry. “Just a story,” he gasped. “I made it...made it up.”

Red Brooch opened his hand again, sealing Jaskier's lips, and nodded to the man behind him. The pull was slow and agonizing this time, the world around him erupting into bright explosions of pain as his left shoulder finally gave under the strain and dislocated. He wanted to scream, but the spell on his mouth made it difficult to even suck in a breath. 

And through it all Red Brooch just studied him with a calculating expression. When the chains around his knees and ankles creaked, Jaskier was suddenly grateful Geralt had used such cruel words to send him packing all those months ago. He would have said anything, given up anything, to make the pain stop...but he had nothing to give.

Then the rope was released, and the sudden drop against his mangled wrists and dislocated shoulder was enough to make his mind go white for a few seconds, while Red Brooch went for another bucket of water to dash over Jaskier's face and chest.

“I don't kn-know,” he stammered, when he could finally speak again. “Please...”

Something rustled just outside his field of vision. Red Brooch glanced over his shoulder, then nodded at the man behind Jaskier, who lumbered off into the darkness to check. For the first time Jaskier realized they were in some kind of dilapidated barn or stable, which meant they couldn't be too far from civilization. If he was careful, he might be able to shout for help if Red Brooch got distracted.

The other man came back—a big, hulking brute with tangled hair and Nilfgaardian armor—shaking his head. 

Nilfgaard. Of course. He could still remember all of Queen Calanthe's rather colorful insults during her daughter's engagement ball all those years ago. The night when Geralt had mistakenly asked for the Law of Surprise and wound up with a child of destiny he had no intention of claiming.

Jaskier was just trying to screw up the courage to scream for help while Red Brooch glared at his companion when the door blew in under a burst of flame. The soldier let out a cry of fury and charged, but another ball of fire caught him in the chest and knocked him back.

A lone figure strode into the darkened space. Dressed in a dark tunic and trousers, rather than the striking black-and-white ensembles she favored, Yennefer was no less intimidating as she released a second searing blast at Red Brooch. He had the sense to throw his hands up to ward off the damage, then he was diving behind Jaskier to put the bard between himself and the approaching mage.

Her violet eyes flicked up to make contact with Jaskier's, then a streaming gout of flame was arcing toward him, only to bend and flow  _around_ him without singing even a hair on his head. Red Brooch cursed and kicked Jaskier in the back of the legs, making the bard cry out in pain at the tug against his wrists and shoulder, then there was the warping twist of magic and the smell of ozone and Jaskier could just see a portal forming out of the corner of his eye.

“No you don't!” Yennefer hissed and fired another blast of flame at Red Brooch, but he was already diving into the portal. She started to follow but hesitated, eyes flickering at Jaskier for a fraction of a second, and sent another stream of fire after Red Brooch. For a brief, satisfying moment he thought he heard a man scream, and then the portal snapped shut.

The soldier was still moving, though his armor and part of his face had burned off. Yennefer stalked over to him, one hand alight with the glow of magic, and seized the front of his leather jerkin with her other hand. “Who sent you?” she demanded.

Jaskier tried to call a warning as the soldier lunged up with a knife, but Yennefer had seen it coming. She doubled back, retrieving her own knife from her boot, and dashed in to cut a long gash in the soldier's arm up toward his armpit, right in the unarmored space where his bracer buckled.

The man fell with a gurgled cry, and Yennefer stood over him for a moment with her face twisted in disappointment as blood spurted out of the man's wound to darken the floor beneath him. “Cut the artery,” she commented over her shoulder. “Damn.”

Too relieved to comment, Jaskier let his head rest against his uninjured shoulder. “Yennefer?”

She studied him, eyes going from the rope holding his wrists up to the chain binding his legs down. “When I cut this, let me take your weight. Don't try to catch yourself on your knees, got it?”

He nodded. She wrapped one arm around his chest, almost tenderly, and reached up with her other hand to slice through the rope connected to the hook he'd been hanging from. Jaskier collapsed against her, the hook striking a glancing blow on his hip on the way down, and fought down a sob of mingled relief and pain as his shoulders went slack. 

Yennefer muttered something and the chains across the back of his legs went limp, letting him slowly drag himself up until he was standing, with Yennefer supporting most of his weight. She stared up at him for a moment, as though reading the map of his injuries, then twisted partly away to summon her own portal with a gesture.

“Two steps and you can lie down,” Yennefer promised.

“Why...” Jaskier coughed, the movement jarring his wounded body, and felt the sorceress pull him inexorably forward. “Why are you...”

“We'll talk later,” she promised. “Just come with me for now.”

He let her lead him through the portal, and the last thing he remembered before darkness flooded his senses was a warm, cozy room with a roaring fire and—most importantly—a soft, clean bed.

* * *

Waking up was much more pleasant this time. Jaskier slowly sat up, well aware that his clothing still stank of the barn and sweat and blood...but the rest of him seemed pleasantly recovered. He flexed his left arm, surprised and relieved that the shoulder had been reset and even the swelling abated.

“You're finally awake,” Yennefer called. She was sitting at the room's little table, a meal spread out in front of her in half a dozen dishes that smelled heavenly. “Come, join me.”

Jaskier slowly approached. The table had two benches that faced each other, but while Yennefer was seated on one the other was covered with what looked like the detritus of a night's spell work. Yennefer rolled her eyes and made a show of scooting to the end of the bench, patting the empty wood beside her. “I won't bite,” she teased. “At least, not after spending a day and a night putting you back together.”

“Ah.” Jaskier awkwardly sat on the edge of the bench. “Um, thank you. For that.”

She rested a hand on his arm in an almost tender gesture. “I've been looking for you. 

He stiffened. He should have known...escaping one danger to fall into another. “I don't know where he is,” he explained slowly. Maybe she'd just let him go, they didn't actually have a reason to hate each other, did they?

“Oh, Jaskier,” Yennefer shook her head, one dark curl falling across her shoulders. “I was looking for _you_. If I wanted to find Geralt...I have my own ways.”

Jaskier nodded. His stomach was cramping, reminding him it had been at least a day since he'd eaten, but he just couldn't bring himself to fill his plate. “I haven't seen him since...since...”

“Since the mountain,” Yennefer finished. “I'm so sorry, Jaskier. I didn't know. If I'd known he'd said something like that to you, I would have come back. I'd have slapped him across his self-righteous face and taken you straight to Oxenfurt, or wherever you needed to be to get away from him.”

For some reason, her words made his eyes prickle as though he was fighting back tears. This couldn't be real—not the unfeeling sorceress, hero of Sodden Hill, the woman so powerful she'd nearly bound a djinn to her will—people like that didn't care about people like him.

“Poor Jaskier,” Yennefer sighed and scooted across the bench to lean her head against his shoulder. “I hate seeing you like this; you're no fun to tease.”

He laughed at that, and the sound almost surprised him. He hadn't had much to laugh about lately. Yennefer smiled up at him and reached out to fill his plate, piling it up with the delicate food the sorceress preferred over the rough meat and bread that was Jaskier's usual tavern fare. He couldn't complain, though. After the events of the last few days a few pieces of fruit and some light, toasted bread sounded a bit more palatable than a joint of mutton.

“You must know I don't hate you,” Yennefer began. “We don't see eye-to-eye, but I would never want to see anything like that happen to you.”

Jaskier gave in and let his head rest against hers, her dark hair soft against his cheek. “I think you're the only one.”

“Geralt was angry,” Yennefer replied. “For a man who claims to have no emotions he has a tendency to let his passions override his self control.”

She rested one hand on his arm and shifted her head so that she was looking up at him. “Don't let this break you, Jaskier. He blames himself for the harsh words he spoke to you; don't take them on as your burden as well.”

To his shame, her thumb brushed over a tear that had escaped from one eye. He cleared his throat and pulled away, taking his plate to stand closer to the fire to eat. “What are your plans now?”

Yennefer pretended not to notice the sudden change of topic. “I have a few things I'm looking into for a friend,” she lied smoothly. That was all right. Jaskier didn't really want to know the sort of things the sorceress got up to. For all he knew she was the spy mistress for an underground movement to liberate Cintra from Nilfgaard control. The less he knew about her life the better.

“I need to get back to Oxenfurt,” Jaskier said, though she hadn't asked. “I've been asked to teach for the summer semester, and walking those hallowed grounds would be a nice respite from life on the road.”

The mage gracefully stood from the table, her movements making even the rough tunic and trousers she still wore seem elegant. “I can send you there by portal whenever you're ready,” she offered, holding a hand up when he started to protest. “Please. I would be happier knowing I'd left you somewhere safe.”

Jaskier placed his empty plate on the mantle and gave a curt nod, emotions welling up in him again. He focused on the fire, knowing that a kind look from Yennefer would break him down again.

She seemed to sense his discomfort and crossed the room to throw a cloak over her shoulders. “I'll see if I can retrieve your belongings from the tavern where you were playing,” Yennefer said. “Eat your fill and I'll send you to Oxenfurt when you're ready.”

Yennefer had her hand on the door before Jaskier had pulled himself together to speak. “Thank you, Yennefer. I really...I mean it.”

The sorceress smiled, a soft expression that he'd never seen on her face. “Eat something. You've lost so much weight you look like a plucked chicken.”

The familiar, sarcastic bite to her tone hand him leaning against the mantle as he laughed, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes rather than the pathetic, pitying ones he'd been fighting back moments before.

Well. Another plate or two wouldn't hurt.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually have trouble watching the show because Geralt is just kind of mean. He's so much better in the books...even if it is a lot of fun to send my friend pictures of Henry Cavil every time she complains that she's thirsty.


End file.
